


A Road Less Travelled

by Momokai



Series: sweetest touch, words like song [2]
Category: The Yin-Yang Master: Dream of Eternity, 晴雅集 | The Yin-Yang Master (2020)
Genre: Boya Regrets His Life Choices, Despite Not Even Being Present, Did I mention pining, Drinking Solves Nothing But Watch Him Try, Everything Is Qing Ming's Fault, Guest Starring: Boya's Gay Panic, He Doesn't Want It, He Is Ruined, Introspection, My Gods The Pining, One (1) Smol and Cute Demon Child, Pining, Pre-Slash, Qing Ming Is A Little Shit, Realisation Of Some Sort Of Feeling, Unbeta'd We Die Like Boya's Alcohol Tolerance, ambiguous timeline, post movie-verse, take it back, tumblr prompt fill
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2021-02-20
Updated: 2021-02-20
Packaged: 2021-03-16 14:10:00
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,740
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29577315
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Momokai/pseuds/Momokai
Summary: Boya has hated demons longer than he's spent living. It only takes one incredibly confusing and attractive half demon to shake this.Alternatively:Boya has many regrets, Qing Ming isn't even around to rub them in his face and Boya accidentally adopts a demon.
Series: sweetest touch, words like song [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2165322
Comments: 9
Kudos: 123





	A Road Less Travelled

**Author's Note:**

> Written to fill a prompt on tumblr, as most of these likely will be, and tailored to fit nicely into this verse.

When Qing Ming had contacted him via magic ear to set up a rendezvous, Boya hadn't thought in a million years that it would go this way.

Typically, it's to join forces for a hunt _, (Boya is convinced this is no more than an excuse however, because those hunts are always well within Qing Ming's ability)_ or instances gaining in frequency simply to catch each other up on their lives. To share in a companionship that grew quickly and terrifyingly as easy as breathing. 

Boya is not adverse in either case. 

With the death of the Empress, Boya's life had changed exponentially. His presence in the palace or even Imperial City itself required less and less until he is eventually finding himself sent far and wide. It's not only him, he knows. His sect was created and maintained to protect the palace from the threat of demons and spirits alike, and just because the Evil Serpent housed within the deceased Empress is no more for a time, does not mean other threats do not exist. As the head of the sect and arguably its best warrior, Boya is no stranger to his skills being in constant demand- however his superiors willingness to _grant_ so many requests is...new. 

Boya can't decide if they're trying to get rid of him, or are simply uncertain of what to do with him and his unexpected fame at being one of the main hands that dealt with the rise of the Evil Serpent and, by happenstance, the death of their nations ruler. Do they lord him as a hero, or an unwitting traitor quickly swept under the rug? 

Never mind that the Empress had seen to her own demise. Boya has, and never will, understand nor enjoy politics. He much prefers the simplicity of wandering village to village to city to countryside in search of his next quarry. Less politics, less complication. He has grown used to and learned to embrace the isolation, and emphatically ignores the pangs of loneliness he certainly does not feel when he is surrounded by people who do not know him or his mind. 

He most certainly does not look forward to the warming of the magic ear he had gifted Qing Ming, or the smooth, almost playful cadence of his voice when he is contacted at random for reasons innocuous or intent. And he most definitely does not drop everything he happens to be doing at the time to indulge the other guardians whims. That would be irresponsible of him, not to mention undignified. 

_Except sometimes he does and he's not even sorry, what is wrong with him._

It has only been a handful of short months since the last time he'd dropped everything to find his feet taking him to a quiet lakeside home near a far away mountain. Not long at all since he'd indulged in the tranquillity and ease of the only presence he'd found that did not raise his hackles or feel like the weight of chains on his shoulders. Boya is self aware enough to know that he is not a people person. He has the skills, as all those born amongst the elite do- but he has long since grown too abrasive, too direct from long years spent honing his body instead of his tongue to be comfortable rubbing shoulders with self important nobles or braggart so called intellectuals masquerading as scholars. 

Once, when he was younger and blinder to the truth of the world he dwelt in, he might have been more suited to opulent surroundings and the couth if hollow companionship of the equally sheltered and stupid. But then his mother had been torn from him, and he'd become more austere, rough, _jaded_. Not consumed, but definitely intent on ideas of revenge and self righteous anger at the being responsible for the death of his innocence. As he'd grown in body, skill and mind however, Boya had honed those qualities into a fine weapon that he aimed mercilessly at not just the one, but the whole of demonkind. 

Boya has hated demons for so long, that when faced with the man who was for all intents and purposes his opposite, he had found the control he sweat and bled for crumbling to dust between his fingers, and he had lashed out. 

He still doesn't know, to this day, what stayed his blade throughout the infancy of that acquaintanceship. Whether it was the presence of his fellows or the weight of the task they all shouldered- until eventually time and exposure had ever so slowly smoothed reflexive hackles, if only enough for him to notice the quiet, sombre air of understanding that permeated often short and prickly interactions. 

Only for those hackles to stand straight back up with every instance of sympathy or outright regard for the beings that exist purely as cruel thorns in Boya's soul. At every sign that this man prefers the company of beasts, kin of half of his blood.

Boya hates demons as surely as the sky is blue and his heart beats within his chest, but against all conceivable reason, Boya can't hate Qing Ming. 

When he tries, Boya just finds that he hates _himself_. 

Against all logic, it was only the passing of days that tempered him to the man's presence. Barely moments in time that gently uncoiled the tight grip of his ire until he found himself beset with an inexplicable sense of _kinship_ that brought nothing but confusion in its wake and made every attempt at rebuke reflexive and half hearted at best. Until they stopped all together and Boya instead found himself _drawn_ in ways he'd never before experienced. Until for the first time in his life, he'd turned the weapon crafted from the bleeding edges of his stone heart to _protect_ an existence he'd spent longer hating than living. 

At first, he told himself he did it out of duty. There were a great many lives threatened in the City, in the world, and he would fulfil the purpose he'd curved into himself gladly and with a small, quiet relief. But that had only been part of the reason, and it had taken some long months of separation and reflection before he'd realised it. Then some further time spent agonising over the ambivalent nature of the realisation, and a few shameful nights spent trying to drown it. Boya is not known for seeking life's answers at the bottom of a bottle, but if there is one existence that can drive him to it, it is probably Qing Ming's. 

He can't decide if his eventual acceptance of the matter was brought about by lowered inhibitions or the regretful insight one experiences only during the first moments one opens their eyes to a truly magnificent hangover. Mayhaps he simply grew tired of waking up face down on or sprawled half under a drinking table in some out of the way inn room he’d stomped into at some ungodly hour. 

Honestly Boya thinks he probably shouldn’t drink at all. His constitution for it in excess seems to leave much to be desired. He can’t be good at everything, he supposes. A realization he is endlessly glad to have come upon _alone_. Gods forbid he be prone to acts not of his character whilst sober, _(if he had had company Boya is of the mind that he might have bemoaned the sorry state of his life in a most undignified manner and he swears never to drink again. It’s only a short while later that he makes a liar of himself and wakes with the indentation of bamboo and regret pressed into his brow.)_

The occasional presence of his dizi on the table leads him to think he might be either a whimsical or maudlin drunk. All the more reason to avoid it, _(he hasn’t received any complaints yet, so at least he does it_ ~~ _well_~~ _quietly, aish.)_

He is not pining. He _isn’t_. 

And if he’d come to an abrupt halt in the middle of a busy street to many startled or annoyed protests the first time the magic ear he’d given to Qing Ming had warmed, no one needed to know, because Boya will take it to his _grave_. 

It’s a process of years, but it is, regardless, a process. One Boya hadn’t much fought against after those first few nights spent agonising over it with the taste of wine sharp on his tongue. The fact that it came about even without the confusing presence of Qing Ming there to turn his life upside down resigns Boya to the belief that he is indeed quite pathetic, all told. 

Still, he always answers, and still, he always eagerly goes where bid. 

Boya wishes he could hate it. 

Never more especially than the first time he meets a demon picking wildflowers of all things on an overgrown road obviously less travelled, _(a small, unwashed slip of a thing in the guise of a child, with eyes too big when they’d met his and small, girlish hands clenching in fright around green stems)_ and _lets it go._

He’d grasped the hilt of the blade carried at his back, fully intending to draw it when, inexplicably, he’d been taken in by the fear in its- _her_ eyes and felt not like a righteous man, but a demon himself.

What is _wrong_ with him. 

He tells no one, and drinks himself into a stupor the next night. He ignores the wildflowers he finds outside his door the next morning. 

It’s all Qing Ming’s fault. Him with his ridiculous ~~exquisite~~ robes and that stupid fan he hides those mischivous ~~attractive~~ smiles behind. Gods, he’s pathetic. 

“Is this where your friend is waiting, Mr. Boya?” Small hands grasp and tug on the sleeve of his travel cloak, and Boya resigns himself, once again, to the lack of urge to shake them off. 

“Mn.” He grunts in reply, and the little girl trailing at his side like some misshapen duckling beams, wildflowers in her hair. 

_How the mighty have fallen_ , he thinks as he weaves a path through the small village towards the tea house he’d been informed to meet at, freshly washed and happily bouncing demon child following at his heels. He has gone from mercilessly slaying demons to throwing the cute ones at someone always too happy to take them. 

_Divine Lord take him, he is so pathetic._

**Author's Note:**

> Come find me on [tumblr](http://howimproper.tumblr.com) for more QinYa shenanigans or just to scream with me 😆


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